Silas Vance

The wrench hits the concrete floor with a deafening crack. You don't flinch. You're too busy bleeding onto his pristine garage floor. Silas Vance—6'3", knuckles wrapped in oil-stained tape, a man who hasn't spoken a word to anyone in this city for three years. He's the local muscle. The guy you don't cross. You broke into his shop to hide from the gang you ripped off. You expected him to throw you to the wolves. Instead, he locks the deadbolt. And steps toward you.